


drop the needle and pray

by irnan



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Multi, OT3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-19
Updated: 2014-07-19
Packaged: 2018-02-09 13:37:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1984935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irnan/pseuds/irnan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha's a super-spy, OK, romantically feeling feelings which happen to be romantic is not what you'd call her forte.</p>
            </blockquote>





	drop the needle and pray

**Author's Note:**

> So, uh, apparently ot3 pining is, like, sixty percent of my jam these days, with the other forty percent being post-CATWS!Natasha being forced to talk about her feelings (preferably for Steve and/or Bucky), preferably to Steve and/or Bucky. A lot. 
> 
> Title from Springsteen.

Natasha found out about Steve and James on the day she dropped by their apartment unexpectedly and caught them necking on the couch in the middle of the afternoon.  
  
She stared and stared. Well. She was officially taken by surprise - it took a lot to surprise her - and they were sprawled there - Steve on his back, one leg hanging off the couch, James lying half atop him, propped up on his left hand while his right seemed to be supporting Steve's head, Natasha could see his fingertips through the strands of Steve's hair, and Steve's other thigh was trapped very firmly between James' and they were _rocking_ just a little and which of them was making that low hitching little moan and her face was flaming.  
  
"Oh my God," said James when he saw her and sunk his head into the angle of Steve's neck and shoulder, just as red as she was.  
  
By contrast, Steve said, "Hi, Nat," and grinned at her, utterly unashamed. His hands were stroking slowly up and down James' spine, rucking his t-shirt a little and smoothing it out again, over and over. Mesmerising.  
  
"Oh, if you'd mentioned this sooner," she said, crossing her arms and tapping her foot at him, "for nearly two years my sample size was cut by half, no wonder I never got any results. Although come to think of it a substantial number of them have since turned out to be HYDRA, so there's that."  
  
"Have you considered that you're maybe just a terrible matchmaker?"  
  
Natasha was inclined to be offended by that. "I'm not terrible at anything."  
  
"Natalia," James said, muffled but distinctly plaintive. Natasha took pity on him and marched off to the kitchen, laughing.  
  
"If you're interested, I brought pie."  
  
"Is the pie a bribe?"  
  
"The pie is a token of my appreciation and friendship, _Steve_."  
  
"So it's a bribe."  
  
James hissed something; Steve muttered back; Natasha ignored them. The kitchen was nice and big, with a round table set in the middle and four chairs. They had forgotten, or not been bothered about, a dining room - the living room was one big open space, couch and armchairs in the middle, bookshelves on the walls, Steve's drafting table by one of the windows. Opposite the kitchen were the two bedrooms and the junk room, which was called so mostly in jest, as it was actually the gun room. And the bathroom door was opposite that, 'set' into the living room so that when you came into the apartment you walked down a short corridor between kitchen wall and back bathroom wall; the whole apartment was basically laid out in a U around the bathroom, it was a weird layout but made for a surprising amount of space. The lines of sight from the windows -  
  
Natasha put the pie in the fridge. Then she folded up the plastic bag she'd carried it in with deliberate, careful movements. She knew the layout of this place as well as she knew the layout of her own. There was no need to go over it again. When James came into the kitchen she didn't jump in the slightest.  
  
"So, uh," he said.  
  
She tossed the plastic bag on the counter and turned to him, grinning. "Congratulations?"  
  
"I realise I've probably violated some kind of dating rule that... I shoulda told you when it happened, and I'm sorry."  
  
He did that - wandered off on tangents and then forced himself back, refocussing the conversation again.  
  
"Hey," she said. "I'm pretty sure the ordinary rules of ex-boyfriend etiquette don't really apply in situations where neither partner in the relationship is ever actually gonna be one hundred percent sure they remember the entire thing, you know?"  
  
He chuckled. Natasha could count the number of times she had seen James laugh, properly, on the fingers of one hand. It was terribly good to see him smile, sulky mouth kiss-bitten red. She looked away, then back. Steve was by his drating table at the other end of the living room, granting the illusion he couldn't hear them.  
  
"Still," said James, "I shoulda said sooner."  
  
What for? It wasn't any of her business. She shrugged, a bit puzzled. "Yes. As you can see, it's completely broken me."  
  
Suddenly the slant of his mouth was sharp with frustration. "Look, we both know you don't - but can't you even take common politeness from either of us?"  
  
Unexpected lash of answering anger - not given to flinching, that was the problem. Natasha bit the inside of her cheek instead. She didn't want - she couldn't start a fight, not now. "All right," she said. "Apology accepted. Don't let it happen again." Would that do?  
  
James slumped against the counter, propping heels of his hands by his hips so that his fingers curled downwards, elbows out at an angle. She could picture him, now, as a lanky teenager, a gawky child in shorts and boots, running around after Steve with his laces trailing.  
  
"Are we fighting?" asked Steve from the doorway.  
  
"No," said Natasha. "You want some pie?"  
  
That was an unnecessary question. Steve's stomach was a bottomless pit into which all foods but Brussel sprouts would disappear without question. And he would even eat sprouts if he was hungry enough. James didn't need to eat quite as much as Steve did, but it was close. They rattled around the kitchen producing plates and forks and whipped cream and mugs of tea and the pie in question; Natasha's breath hitched once when Steve took the first bite, but he looked ecstatic, tip of his tongue licking lips as kiss-bitten as James', eyes half-closed, dreamy and delighted. The tiniest, most ordinary things could delight him, delight both of them.  
  
"This is _great_."  
  
"Oh, good," said Natasha. "It was in my mailbox this morning and I really thought it might be poisoned -"  
  
James flicked whipped cream at her.  
  
*********  
  
A week after that they all tracked out to Manhattan to go to MOMA.  
  
"If I have to endure this so do you," said James, jostling her shoulder as they jumped up the subway steps. Steve was half a mile ahead of them already.  
  
Natasha jostled happily back, aiming to stomp on his foot; he skipped out of the way, smirking. "Nice outfit," she said, teasing. "Did I mention that?"  
  
He preened. It was adorable. "Not yet." It really was a nice outfit: pale grey slacks, polished black boots, a black button-down - he never wore white shirts, they showed the join of his left shoulder, the tight scar tissue, too clearly - a leather jacket, dully shining with newness. Restored to his natural habitat (Brooklyn, NY) and unencumbered by wars and/or brainwashings, James Buchanan Barnes was an enthusiastically snappy dresser. He wore dark colours and leathers, always polished his shoes to a shine, vocally disapproved of men who wore suit jackets with jeans, short of going undercover would not be caught dead in a denim shirt, and was vocally appalled by the modern practice of grown men wearing shorts for everyday wear. He was, in short, a bit of a snob about it. That was OK. So was Natasha. And considering what he'd been through, she thought it was probably good for him, to pay such careful attention to something so personal as his clothes.  
  
(Just at the moment she herself was wearing a very nice grey blouse that tucked neatly into a pair of perfectly-fitting black jeans, ankle boots with a heel heavy enough to crush the bones in a man's hand, and a black Eisenhower leather jacket that would've hidden the gun strapped to her side very nicely if she'd been wearing one. They rather matched.)  
  
Then they both looked up at Steve, who was wearing jeans and a plain t-shirt under one of those dreadful boring cloth jackets he favoured.  
  
"We can work with it," said James.  
  
"You're gonna have to," said Natasha, emphasis on the pronoun. It had taken her nearly six months to persuade Steve to get rid of his awful Forties haircut and at least look as if he lived in the 21st century - and maybe it was just that he was a couple years older now, but she did think the shorter hair emphasised his jawline and cheekbones nicely - but thank God, any nagging of Steve about those damn jackets was no longer her responsibility. That lovely brown leather he'd been wearing when they had first met was perfectly cut, sat just right across his shoulders; if James wanted Steve out of those bags he was wearing now and into something more like that, it was up to him to handle it. And shirts - button-downs, Henleys, thin sweaters with v-necks would suit him just right, leave visible the chain of his dog tags that he had started wearing again after SHIELD went down.  
  
Anyway. Not up to her.  
  
"He's not used to it," said James.  
  
Natasha blinked. "Huh?" They darted through the glass doors ahead of a tour group just as a gust of wind swept summer rain down the street. The clouds were roiling far overhead. Steve was up at the ticket desk lines already, just about bouncing with cheer and anticipation. It was adorable.  
  
"You know, clothes. No cash for 'em when we were kids. S'not a thing you pick up on the side."  
  
That was probably true. They skirted a family of tourists wearing hiking rucksacks and brandishing cameras to join Steve in the queue. James and Steve stood close, almost touching, palpably together. Natasha slipped in next to them, near enough that their combined body heat enveloped her - for the first time in a long while she realised completely how much taller they both were than she was. She had to crane her neck to see their faces. Doing so made her feel unsteady, balanced on the edge of a circle that was drawing tight and slipping away from her.  
  
The queue shuffled forwards slowly. People were chattering all around them in dozens of different languages, several Natasha spoke, more she didn't. Families, tour groups, couples, groups of friends, one brown-skinned girl in her early twenties standing alone, who clutched a Lonely Planet to her chest with a look of stunned, speechless happiness.  
  
"She's from Europe, or South Asia, or Australia, or somewhere far away," Steve said quietly by Natasha's ear. "Never thought she'd ever make it to New York. Dreamed of this city like other people dream of home."  
  
"And now she's here, and even if she's only here for a few days, no matter what she does or sees, she's gonna be ecstatically happy," Natasha said. "She's gonna go home again and hold this one perfect week against her heart for the rest of her life."  
  
"I'd like to draw her with that look on her face, like she's lit up from inside."  
  
"She's beautiful." Happy people always were. It jumped out of their faces at you like a blazing light, just as Steve said. Natasha realised she was smiling a little, but her chest felt strangely hollow.   
  
"I thought we were here to see the art," James teased.  
  
"We are," Steve said happily.  
  
"Life moves pretty fast," said Natasha, solemn. "If you don't stop and look around every once in a while, you might miss it."  
  
James frowned. "Is that a movie? That's a movie, right? One of those Eighties ones. Not the one with the treasure hunt?"  
  
"No no no, that's the Goonies," said Steve. "Nat's quoting _Ferris Bueller's Day Off_."  
  
"Ahhhhh. Oh, with the car!"  
  
"Full marks, Sergeant," said Natasha. "Extremely important cultural document, Ferris Bueller. I mean, if you believe the Internet. And also my handlers, who thought I wouldn't pass for American if I hadn't seen it. Hint, hint."  
  
"She just really really likes Eighties movies," said Steve. He reached out and wrapped a loose strand of Natasha's hair around his fingers, gave it a fond, pestering little tug. She pushed his hand away gently, fingertips skating across his skin.  
  
"Sweetheart, I'm a national icon," said James. He pouted when he was offended, eyebrows scrunched and mouth curling in just that way that - "I'm more American than apple pie."  
  
"You're a second-gen Irish Catholic immigrant who's here to steal the jobs out from under decent hardworking Protestants and contribute to the rise in public drunkenness and lewd behaviour," said Steve sternly, jamming his hands under his armpits. "We both are."  
  
"Wow, politicians never do really change, do they," said Natasha.  
  
They were in the MOMA for nearly five hours. It was pretty great.  
  
*********  
  
When New York got muggy, it got _muggy_. The clouds had been piling up for hours, but there was no sign yet of any kind of actual rain, and the heat was a slick, choking blanket over everyone's thoughts. The aircon wasn't really helping. Steve had fled to the fire escape outside the bedroom window, where he balanced a sketchbook on his knees and frowned a lot. James was clanging around in the kitchen, eating more out of boredom than hunger. Natasha climbed out to join Steve in the open air, read for a short while. His hair was very bright against the brickwork, his fingers smudged with the charcoal he'd been using earlier. The pencil in his hand was black with it, too.  
  
"Can I ask you something?"  
  
Down on the street people were talking, cars were moving past, but up here her voice seemed to shatter a bubble of silence. Steve's eyes flicked up to her. It was fascinating to watch him work if he was drawing from life: his body would barely move, but his eyes would dart up and down and up again fast as lightning, cataloguing, assessing, memorising, comparing.  
  
"Of course."  
  
"Did you guys - I mean, in the war?"  
  
He laughed. "No. Never."  
  
Natasha was fascinated. "How come?"  
  
"You know," he said thoughtfully. "I look back on it, and I don't know? I mean, I love Peggy. I probably always will." He smiled, face tight with well-worn pain. "But I - you know those trick pictures where you focus your eyes different and suddenly you can't unsee...? It was like that." He snapped his fingers, a sharp crack. "I was done. And looking back... I still can't unsee. Not really."  
  
Natasha tapped her book against her chin, smiling. "That's - that's kind of nice. Like - having everything fall into place and... and finally make sense."  
  
"Not quite everything," said Steve. He was watching her and smiling like he knew the secrets of the universe. "But almost."  
  
*********  
  
Once she fell asleep on the couch on a Friday night and woke to find the room dimly lit by the lamp over Steve's drafting table and the light spilling from the open bathroom door. Steve's low voice said, "OK?" James made a noise of assent, grunted.  
  
Curious, Natasha slipped to her feet. One of them had tucked a blanket around her; she shrugged it off. Boots long since abandoned, she slid across the wooden floor in her socks and peered into the bathroom, one hand raised to knock. Then she was glad she hadn't.  
  
James was balanced half-on the counter next to the basin, back to her and shirtless. That scar she recognised; those ribs she had kissed... he had lifted his left arm and was cupping the back of his own head with that hand so that his side was exposed. Steve, standing next to him, was rubbing the scarred join where steel fused into skin just under his armpit, fingertips and skin glistening with lotion. Natasha bit her lip.  
  
"Better?" Steve murmured.  
  
"It's always gonna chafe a little," James said quietly. "It's OK."  
  
"Hmm." Steve tipped his fingers in the pot of lotion on the countertop, rubbed up James' back to his shoulder, slow gentle circles across twisted burn scars that arrowed inwards from the arm into James' flesh. Natasha had never done this for him, never known it needed doing. Maybe it didn't, strictly speaking... James let his head hang forwards, sighing. Steve's face was rapt with love, back half-turned to the door, no world beyond the man he touched. Once James made a noise, a little groan when Steve's fingers dug into some knot. "Don't wake Nat," Steve said quietly. "She looks wrecked."  
  
She did _not_.  
  
"I know," James whispered. "I wish she'd let us-"  
  
"So do I."  
  
Natasha wanted to jerk back. They would notice her if she did. She crept away on silent feet, slid back to the couch, wrapped herself in the blanket. It was colder in here than she'd thought. She forced herself back to sleep, rousing only when Steve picked her up and carried her into his bedroom, tucked her in. The bed was ridiculously big and ridiculously comfortable. Natasha shifted, eyes fluttering open. Steve's hair glowed, backlit by the lamp in the living room, as he bent over her to kiss her forehead, said, "Good night." Left again, moving as silently as she did, closed the door, but she couldn't help - had to hold her breath and listen for - did they both sleep in here more often or in James' room? Did they ever sleep together at all, like a nineteenth-century married couple with separate bedrooms, just staying long enough to - to make love, and maybe cuddle? Of course they damn well cuddled, she'd caught them at it...  
  
"You little fool," she whispered, threw herself back onto the bed and dragged the covers over her head. Oh, that was a mistake, they hadn't been washed in a few days and smelt of warm bodies and sweat and, yes, sex -  
  
She had come here first. Right after the mission, right after seeing Fury, she had come here first, had stopped to shower and change and then she'd jumped on the subway and come here, to be fed and teased and smiled at and comforted and - and. She waited an hour for versimilitude; then she made her escape and left a note: _had to go mission stuff_. After an agonising five-second internal debate, she grabbed the pen again and added _thanks for looking after me_ in a burst of angry black scrawl across the paper. Her hand shook as if she'd torn the words out of herself. Halfway out the door she nearly turned around and burnt it, but that was just - no. She could handle - she could handle common politeness, whether taken or given. She could.  
  
*********  
  
If James had bad days, Natasha didn't know about them. If he had night terrors, sweats, shakes, flashbacks and panic attacks, if he ever barricaded himself in the bathroom with a pile of ration bars and bottled water and all the guns he owned, if he ever felt his memories come crawling up his throat to choke him, if he ever felt his very skin shrinking on his bones until he was climbing the walls with it, regret and guilt so long on the boil they bubbled over into anger... Natasha didn't know about any of it. That glimpse she had of the two of them in the bathroom was the most vulnerable she had ever seen him since the day she had crashed headlong into Steve's new apartment for the first time and found the Winter Soldier eating Cheerios and reading the New York Times at Captain America's kitchen table. Steve too - she could count the number of times she had seen Steve turned inside out on the fingers of one hand. He used to move sometimes like marble brought to mockery of life, shiver out of his own skin with the force of his need for the adrenaline punch of physical exertion. But his very inability to hide those days made them less intimate; everyone knew he had them, they weren't a vulnerability, it was just the way Steve got sometimes.  
  
He probably still got like that, but Natasha imagined he handled the physical exertion part a little differently. (Or had James handle it for him, snigger snigger.) Fighting, fucking - she didn't really see much difference between the two.  
  
But she didn't know why she was thinking like this - why she even wanted to know - if it was vital information she'd either guilt it out of Sam Wilson or, hell, just bug their damn apartment. And it wasn't vital information, on the contrary, it was all pointless speculation. And rude and intrusive and rude besides.  
  
*********  
  
The next time - you'd really think she'd have learned better than to just walk into this apartment, key or no key, Jesus Christ - the next time she came over there was a teenage girl curled in the armchair reading. She had reddish-brown hair cut short and a familiar mouth, though oddly tip-tilted; high cheekbones and a grin wider than the Atlantic Ocean when she saw Natasha.  
  
"Oh wow, oh my God, are you Natasha?"  
  
"Uh," said Natasha intelligently.  
  
"I'm Rikki Barnes!"  
  
Natasha said, "Oh! What?"  
  
"Uh," said Rikki. "You know nothing about me, huh. Uncle Jim?"  
  
"I've been away for a couple days," said Natasha. " _Uncle Jim?_ "  
  
This would appear to refer to James, who was just coming out of the kitchen. He'd been cooking, she could smell Bolognese. Surprised at the girl's presence, she hadn't noticed at first.  
  
"Uncle Jim," he confirmed, looking supremely self-satisfied. "Nat, Rikki's my niece - my sister Becca's granddaughter."  
  
Becca, of course - the inimitable Rebecca Barnes, whom both James and Steve had adored. Uncle Jim. Well, duh. Natasha gave herself a shake and turned back to the girl. She stuck out a hand. "Hi, Rikki. Nice to meet you."  
  
Rikki shook hands with her, delighted. "Hi. Oh wow oh wow."  
  
"Now you get star-struck," said James.  
  
"Shut up, are you the actual Black Widow?" said Rikki. "No you're not. You're my uncles. Weird and immortal and superheroes, but still pretty ordinary."  
  
"Ordinary!" said Natasha. "I wish." She grinned.  
  
"No you don't," said James.  
  
"Are you staying for dinner?" asked Rikki. "Please say yes."  
  
Tough call. Nieces! Nieces were a brand new complication Natasha had never banked on, ever. Nieces who wanted to know her even less. She had come over to - to be normal, to eat dinner and argue and tease and maybe watch a movie or raid James' bookshelves while Steve sketched. Nieces were not normal. And if he - she was the mad Russian assassin ex-girlfriend, she realised suddenly. Maybe she didn't get to have nieces.  
  
"Haven't talked to you in a couple days," said James. "Steve's at the corner store. C'mon. You like Bolognese."  
  
That was true.  
  
*********  
  
Rikki was sixteen. She was sharp and smart and resourceful and a little idealistic; her mother Jamie (in her fifties, kind, clever, utterly bemused by but deeply fond of both James and Steve) was a well-known archaeologist; her brother John was swamped with finals and football games and applications for colleges; Natasha met him only once, nice kid but thoroughly distracted at the moment. By contrast, Rikki was over practically every weekend. She was a straight-A student, she took kickboxing because it was fun, she had no idea what she wanted to do with her life - "Though I did used to say I wanted to be a SHIELD agent like the Director and Trip and Sharon but obviously _that's_ not gonna work out, thanks for ruining my life Captain America!" - and she admired Natasha frankly and openly, which left Natasha wanting to hide under a bed somewhere for the rest of, oh, _forever_.  
  
"You threw away everything that protected you to do the right thing in DC," she said earnestly. "I hope if I'm ever in that position I'll have even half your guts."  
  
For what was possibly the first time in her entire life Natasha Romanov spluttered with embarrassment. This was not - how this was appropriate after-dinner conversation was beyond her, completely beyond, couldn't have found it with GPS and a telescope type beyond.  
  
James and Steve were watching the entire horror show with sadistic satisfaction.  
  
"She is pretty great," said Steve. "During the battle with the Chitauri -"  
  
"Not that story," said Natasha. "No stories! No, really. Listen, kid -"  
  
"Yah, you can't stop me."  
  
"Can't I!"  
  
"If you're gonna fight, take it into the living room," said James. "I wanna tell Rikki about Kazakhstan."  
  
"Oh God," said Natasha. "Please don't do this to me."  
  
"What happened in Kazakhstan?" You'd think it was Steve who was related to Rikki, they were so perfectly in sync.  
  
James pointed at Natasha. "She saved these girls, pulled the most amazing stunt with this beaten-up Jeep..."  
  
And on it went. Torture. She squirmed and twisted and flailed and interrupted, but there was no way out short of leaving, and she couldn't bring herself to do that. Not yet.  
  
*********  
  
Another evening, watching the TV this time, something silly and stuffed with explosions: Steve was in the kitchen, pouring himself a drink. When he came out he sat next to Natasha, sandwiching her between them, though there was a perfect amount of space on James' other side. The movie hadn't been one she was really interested in anyway. Deliciously hemmed in, warm and comfortable. They were looking at each other over the top of her head.  
  
Natasha said, "Oh, eurgh, Jesus, just cuddle already." She eeled out from in between them and flung herself into the armchair, taking the blanket with her. James said, "Well, all right then," voice carefully neutral, and Steve huffed. When Natasha looked back at them they were in practically the same position they had been in when she had walked in on them that first time, only switched, Steve's head turned towards the TV, pillowed on James' chest. His left arm was flung across Steve's back.  
  
She looked back at the TV and tried to pick up the plot of the movie again.  
  
*********  
  
The day Steve, James and Rikki decided she needed to learn about baseball was another kind of disaster. They dragged her out to the Marine Park ballpark - it was late evening and the place was almost certainly closed, but as it turned out Rikki Knew People and under any circumstances but these Natasha would have said this boded well for her future; as it was she was too preoccupied with her own dire situation. You couldn't see many stars overhead, but the moon was full, the breeze warm and grass-scented, and Natasha had only agreed to this because she'd had three glasses of wine over dinner and was happily tipsy. Warmed inside, aware in a peripheral way that her speech was a little too loud and her face was flushed, she felt expansive and generous and loving, and Rikki was a shameless little cat who took advantage of you when you were at your weakest and needed to be taken in hand sharpish before she turned into a supervillain.  
  
Natasha was not prepared to volunteer.  
  
"OK come on," said Rikki, bouncing on the balls of her feet. "You got this, I know you got this, come on. Say it back to me."  
  
"Nine players, nine innings. The pitcher's the one in the middle. I'm the hitter? With the bat? And whoever's behind me is the catcher."  
  
"Lovely. And when you've hit the ball you -"  
  
"Run like hell round all the bases without being knocked off my feet," said Natasha obediently, and gave the bat in her hand a swing. "Do I -"  
  
"You don't get to keep the weaponry when you run!" Steve bellowed from where he had been positioned near the second base with a worn and faded catcher's mitt ("Stolen from John, he hasn't played baseball in years, he won't notice"). The man was psychic. Natasha gave him the finger.  
  
Rikki "Exactly! Well, more or less. OK. I'm gonna pitch, it's me and Uncle Jim against you and Steve. Here. Right here. That's it." She positioned Natasha on a sandy knoll and skipped off to the centre of the diamond-shaped pitch, whistling to herself.  
  
Natasha turned to glower at James, standing behind her and grinning hard. "Why is it that all American national sports involve so much knocking people to the ground?"  
  
"We're a violent and remorseless people," he said cheerfully. "Everything your handlers told you - oh no. No no no. You can't even - can't even grip it right, come here, come on..."  
  
He stepped up behind her; she pushed him back indignantly - "It's a bat, how hard can it be!" - they scuffled a little, laughing like idiots. Her chest was up against his back. He nudged her ankles with the toes of his boots until her stance was acceptable; he put both arms around her and positioned her fingers on the bat. He helped her swing the bat a few times, showing her the movement and rhythm of it.  
  
"Here. Like this."  
  
"You're drunk too," she said, smelling wine on his breath. She couldn't remember if she'd seen him drinking any at dinner. How had that happened? When had she stopped noticing her surroundings like that?  
  
Probably around the second glass of wine, let's be honest.  
  
"A little," he said. "It doesn't work on Steve at all but I still get buzzed if I have enough."  
  
Natasha shook her head, felt a few individual hairs catch on his stubble. "Ridiculous," she said, struggling not to laugh at herself, at all of them, being roped into a kiddie game by a sixteen-year-old with an overactive hero-worship complex and a penchant for recklessness which was presumably genetic.  
  
Affectionately he said, "Get a grip - you might even enjoy it."  
  
"Won't, won't, won't," she chanted. "You can't make me like it, you can't, you can't."  
  
"I want you to know that you are completely ridiculous and also twelve."   
  
"For your sake I hope not," said Natasha. "OK, OK, fine, so what, I hit the ball and then I run?"  
  
"If you manage one home run I promise Rikki will let you sit out for the rest of the evening and stargaze."  
  
"That might literally be the nicest thing you've ever said to me."  
  
"Might it?"  
  
Words neutral, voice calm and flat. He had stepped away from her. The warm breeze had turned colder, which was rather pleasant under the glaring bright lights overhead, the sticky late-summer atmosphere that threatened rain again soon, the knowledge that she was expected to run like hell around a ballpark in another three seconds. Natasha hefted the bat.  
  
"Probably," she lied, eyes on Rikki, who was tossing the ball from hand to hand in a professionally terrifying manner.  
  
When she hit the ball there was a resounding crack like a shout of triumph. Rikki's whoop followed the ball up and up against the night sky, a graceful curve of white arching higher than Natasha had expected, geometric perfection a little bit heartstopping.  
  
She flung the bat away and ran.  
  
*********  
  
Sometimes - times like now, leaving to meet with Clint and handle one of Nick's periodical 'favours' - Natasha thought about how the Winter Soldier had taught her half her skills and she had passed a great many of them on to Steve and how strangely her life had come full circle, which was a damn strange thing for anyone to think about when they were preparing to go out and punch neo-Nazi terrorists in the face, but there you go. You agreed to join one superhero team for a world-saving mission and over the next two years the rest of your life collapsed in on you and showered you with government conspiracies, Nazis, mindwipes and your ex-boyfriend.  
  
She didn't mind as much as she thought it politic to pretend to.  
  
Steve hugged her, and she hugged back. He smelled like Old Spice and turpentine and paint. If he bent his head over hers and held her a little closer than, say, Clint might have -  
  
"Is it sorta ridiculous and patronising if I say be careful?" he asked.  
  
"Yes," said Natasha. "But there's a side-order of cute, so I'll let it slide."  
  
She felt the laugh run through him before she stepped back, smiling.  
  
And James. Once this, the circle of his arms, had been the closest thing to a safe place she had ever known. Hell: she was standing in an apartment she spent more time in than she did in her own, embracing two men she had trusted with herself entire. This was the safest place she knew.  
  
The thought was like a lightning-flash across a night-dark sky, a heartbeat when she saw herself (and them) outlined in stark relentless light. Perspective shifted, picture righted - no way to unsee it, just as Steve had said. Her breath caught and her heart stuttered. She was dazed with it, probably shaking. Dizzily she pulled back, caught sight of wide grey eyes, his hands snagging on her elbows, his mouth parted with surprise. What had she said? Nothing. Just -  
  
"Tasha?" said Steve, suddenly scarce a breath away. Dear God, that voice. He needed to call her that forever. She swallowed hard. She realised her own fingers were digging into James' arms.  
  
But, but, but. "I gotta go," she said, mouth gone dry, voice gone hoarse. She forced her fingers to unclench. They trembled.  
  
James shook his head, his hands on her tightening. Steve said, "Tasha," again, low and fierce. Natasha looked at him, really looked at him, looked at both of them, drinking it in. Some latch had been lifted, some lock come undone... too shy or too scared? Natasha Romanov wasn't afraid of anything. Or if she was she faced it down and picked it apart, sinew by sinew, to re-make it as her own and armour herself with it.  
  
She licked her lips. "I really do have to go." James' fingers fell away from her elbows, but the look on his face... he knew her inside out, knew all the things she wanted, if he touched her again... she looked away, looked at Steve: Steve, lips parted, hand half-outstretched, eyes on her hot and wanting. Natasha shivered. There was their answer, if they had the sense to see it. Of course they did. They had been waiting for it long enough, waiting for her, patient as - as snipers, soldiers in a foxhole. Oh Christ, that was - that was completely and unexpectedly sexy. Her knees were wobbly. James' eyes narrowed.  
  
"This mission," he said roughly, "is gonna be a disaster."  
  
Abruptly her mood snapped into exultant hilarity, so fast she was breathless. "Challenge accepted," said Natasha. "Don't" - she wouldn't lean in, she wouldn't move back towards them, she wouldn't kiss them, wouldn't, wouldn't, not yet - "don't do anything I wouldn't do." Was there anything she wouldn't do with them? Probably not. "Have fun, boys." She could barely take her eyes off them to get out the door, biting hard on her lower lip to stop herself breaking into laughter. Once in the elevator she shook with unadulterated happiness, flushed with anticipation. Oh God. Oh, what had she done? What had she been thinking? Clearly nothing. Running on instincts. Outdated, outmoded, completely superfluous. Never again.  
  
Never again. She hugged herself with triumph. Hers, hers, hers. All along, both of them. All she'd ever had to do was get over herself. Easier said than done, apparently. How many months had she wasted already?  
  
Never mind. They had time. They had all the time in the world.  
  
*********  
  
The mission went like clockwork.  
  
*********  
  
Three a.m. This time she hadn't even stopped at her own place. Natasha could find her way through this apartment in the pitch dark, punch-drunk with her eyes closed... which room were they in? Steve's. She could hear them breathing, see the outline of their bodies in the dim glow from behind the curtains. They must have heard her, surely. She kicked her boots off, stripped to her underwear, let her clothes fall anywhere. Where to lie down, how to climb in... Steve sat up, propped himself on his elbows.  
  
"Tasha," he said, slurred with sleep.  
  
"Hello, love," Natasha murmured, and promptly yawned so hard she nearly cracked her jaw. Her eyes scrunched up, aching with weariness, but she got a look at Steve's smile, lit up with happiness.  
  
James started laughing. "Disaster," he mumbled. "Come here."  
  
Natasha said primly, "I'm not in this to get suffocated," whereupon Steve caught her hips and toppled her onto the bed between them, trapping her legs under his.  
  
"Tough," he said. "Haven't you done enough running away?"  
  
Natasha hid her face in the pillow to stop herself smiling.  
  
*********  
  
Six and a half hours later, James said, "Hel- _lo_. I've missed these."  
  
"Have you?" said Natasha, arching breathlessly up into his palms. "Good to know. I've missed you playing with them..."  
  
He kissed her for that - she moaned, reaching up and back to fist one hand in his hair, knew her capacity for conscious thought was absolutely dissolving. Steve was curled up on a level with their hips, his eyes on them burning.  
  
"Guys," he said finally, and Natasha had loved his voice before she discovered it could sound like _that_. "God, you’re beautiful, want to draw you just like that... but I'm gonna need some specific instructions from here on out…?"  
  
Natasha shifted to look at him, focus helped along by the way he was stroking her hips, her stomach swirling circles and figure-eights around her navel. "You know, I kinda thought you'd be the pushy one."   
  
"Frequently but by no means always," James said by her ear. "Watch his face when you give him an order, it's beautiful."  
  
Steve's mouth curled a little dangerously, as if he were about to wade into a fight, which. Hell yes. "In this instance I'm actually referring, though don't get me wrong Nat I will take all the orders you have to give and then some, don't ever think different, but right now what I meant was I've never done this before, so if you want it to not be terrible..."  
  
Natasha's jaw dropped. Then she said, "Oh Christ I knew it." Then, as James shook with laughter underneath her, she wrapped her legs over Steve's shoulders. "Make James tell you, I'm too turned on to think."  
  
Steve's hands clenched tightly on her hips, teeth worrying at his lower lip. "Tell or order?" he said mischievously. Natasha sank her hands into his hair imperiously, but he leaned up to kiss her stomach first, navel, hips, the Odessa scar, lips bumping gently on the raised, twisted flesh. Natasha kissed James again before he could say anything, dirty and deep. Whichever way she looked she had the most perfect view… Then James sucked a breath in through his teeth and said, "The first thing you gotta remember is that she can kill you with her thighs like that," and all the blood rushed into Steve's face and he said, "Don't I know it," and Natasha was too breathless to even laugh.  
  
*********  
  
About three hours after that, James stood by the bedroom door looking down at the pile of clothes Natasha had haphazardly shucked last night, one hand propped on his hip.  
  
"You're a hopeless slob, aren't you," he said.  
  
Natasha - sprawled on her stomach across the width of the bed, at right angles to Steve, on whose chest she was resting her crossed arms and her chin - said, with much amusement but far less accuracy, "Hopeless."  
  
James sighed. "Mighta guessed," he said.  
  
Steve was laughing softly, one arm flung behind his head. His other hand was playing with Natasha's hair, fingers brushing her scalp every now and then. It was nice.  
  
*********  
  
By the time it had gotten dark again Natasha had not left that bed for longer than half an hour total all day. The first time she had woken up, before they'd had sex, she had drifted happily awake, held warmly between Steve and James; the second time, early in the afternoon, James had been asleep beside her but not Steve; he had been sketching in the living room. Natasha had gone to the bathroom, eaten a bowl of cereal, kissed Steve thoroughly, cleaned her teeth and gone back to bed.

She woke again at about nine in the evening, alone in the bed and with the sensation that the skin was crawling off her bones. Bad day. She didn't need to be here for a bad day. Hell. She dragged herself to the shower, hoping she could scrape the unease away with a sponge and half a bottle of gel. When she came out half a month's hot water supply later she raided James' closet - he was shorter than Steve - for briefs and a shirt. Not ideal. They had already carted yesterday's clothes off to the laundry hamper. Did they think they could keep her here by vanishing her clothes like that, like she was gonna lie around naked in bed all day until her things came back?

Reasonable, calm, smart and efficient Natasha knew this was one of the more ridiculous things she'd ever thought about them. But, well, she'd been stupid about them for months, why change a winning streak?

They were in the kitchen, drinking tea and talking. The radio was playing quietly, some unobtrusive pop music, and the windows were open. When she walked in, the smiles they gave her dropped her heart into her stomach.

"Tea?" said Steve. "Food?"

"I'm good," said Natasha.

"Are you sure? I made sandwiches -"

"I'm _good_." After a pause, "Thanks."

"You're welcome."

Everyone went silent. It was really awkward. It did nothing for Natasha's nerves. Or her temper. Steve was at the table, just as she was; the Times lay between them, they must be the only subscribers to the paper version left in the damn city, the Times always annoyed Natasha whenever she read it. She didn't know why. James was leaning against the counter by the fridge, one foot crossed over the other, holding his tea mug in his left hand. He looked ready to start laughing: at them, at this sudden stupid awkwardness between them. This morning they had gone from asleep to awake and having sex in so smooth a transition they had barely said a word to each other before everyone was naked and touching everyone else. This evening was awful. She wanted that ease back, her own contentment in her own skin, the way words were fun but superfluous, the sure, certain way they had come together, held each other.

Natasha said, "What are we doing?" and watched them look at each other, faces closed off, whole conversations in their silence. Did they know how similar they were, did they consciously realise how effortlessly they read one another, how completely in sync they were? Probably not. She itched everywhere, wanted to scratch her arms and legs raw.

Steve said, "That's - that's kind of up to you, Nat."

Creeping unease and awkwardness became a knife-edge of anger. She wondered if it showed.

"Don't do that. Don't put this on me."

"That's not - I mean, it _is_ on you. What you do now. We're not goin' anywhere."

"Pretend I really am that dumb. Spell it out."

James sighed. "What - where is this all of a sudden coming from?"

"Nowhere." Natasha couldn't quite take her eyes off Steve. When it came down to it he was the dangerous one. James understood her perfectly, but Steve would flay her open to get at what she meant and wanted if he felt like it. She was aware that she was probably provoking him, but she couldn't stop herself. "I'm just trying -"

"You're trying to run away," said Steve. "Fine, you know, if that's what you want." He gestured to his right, in the general direction of the apartment door.

"How very gracious of you."

"I am that. Gracious."

"You really think we're gonna make this work?" Her guts were twisted into tangles tighter than the Gordian Knot.

Blank hurt flashed across Steve's face. "You don't?"

"Well, let's think. You're a super-soldier from World War Two, James is a formerly brainwashed HYDRA assassin, and I'm a Russian spy. Sounds functional, right?"

"Are you doing this on purpose?"

"Doing what?"

"Oh, don't. Don't play at - why don't you go right back to calling me Rogers and refusing to take me seriously?"

"I am taking you seriously, can't you see that's pretty much the whole problem?"

"It's a little late to be getting cold feet, Natasha." He hadn't moved, except that he had dropped his right hand to his lap under the table top, probably so he could clench it into a fist without her seeing.

"Oh, well!" She threw her hands up, let her mouth curl into an unpleasant bow. "A little late. You're not getting presumptuous at all."

"You're changing the subject," he said remorselessly. "Go ahead if you want and try and make me believe this was about sex. Because for the last three years all you would've had to do -"

"Was snap my fingers? Maybe I wanted the matched set."

Steve's head jerked back, a tiny movement that nevertheless left the impression that she had slapped his face so hard his head had snapped completely back with the force of it. Natasha closed her eyes and swallowed hard. James put his mug down on the countertop - at least, she heard the clink of a mug being set down.

"If that's what it was, I think we'd both appreciate it if you left now, please." Oh, he understood her all right. Steve might've yelled, given another minute, but James backed her implacably into a corner and waited her out. Natasha - shook, and clenched her hands so hard her fingernails dug deeply into the heels of them. Seconds ticked by - the news came on the radio. A police siren raced past on the street below.

Without opening her eyes, she said, "I am gonna do this again."

One of them drew a long breath.

"OK," said Steve quietly.

"Probably after every mission at some point, good or bad. I am not gonna move in here, and neither of you are ever gonna set foot in my apartment short of an emergency. I am not gonna fuck anyone else while we do this. Neither are either of you. But I am gonna do this again."

"That's fine," said James.

"Is it."

"I can't tell if you think we're the functional ones or not," said Steve. "Nat, we keep separate bedrooms because half the time we sleep in shifts, or neither of us really can. And I can't - did I ever tell you that even cold showers still give me panic attacks? The front of the plane caved in, and I was thrown backwards and the water burst through -" He stopped.

Natasha opened her eyes. "There's a slight difference between panic attacks and me being - this."

"Oh, stop," said James. "Just - don't. I can't stand all the self-flagellation, that's my job around these parts." That was news to her too. "What do you need to do, clean all the guns in the house and sit in front of the door all night with an AK-47?"

"For the record, we don't actually own an AK-47," said Steve.

Natasha snorted. "No. I don't - sometimes I lock myself in, and - sometimes I go out and pick someone up. Sometimes if I run a bath and just put my head under..." She shook her head. "Sometimes I just gotta pace it out. I don't run or drive, it makes me paranoid. I mean, even more paranoid. I'll be OK by tomorrow."

"Tea and sandwiches ever been tried?"

She laughed.

"Come on," said James. "You haven't eaten all day, have you. Shall I let all the blinds down?"

"Yes. Thank you."

"OK." He went out of the kitchen; Steve snapped the kettle on and fished a plate of sandwiches out of the fridge. The second the smell of the pickle in them hit Natasha's nose she was ravenous. Two of five were gone before the kettle had even boiled.

"Tea, huh."

"Habit-forming if you've spent any time in England," Steve said.

"Is that where you spent leave? After Italy?"

"Always. Couldn't screw myself up to going back to the States, to be honest. Not sure why."

"Not till the war was over?"

"I guess." He poured the water into her mug, the string attached to the teabag hopping and jumping. When he sat down again she put her hands over his.

"I'm sorry."

He said ruefully, "You and I are gonna rip each other apart if we're not careful, I think."

"Sam was right, we need a keeper."

Simultaneously they craned their necks to watch James in the living room. Then they were both laughing at each other, and Steve leaned over the table to kiss her firmly.

"You know what else helps?"

She rubbed her thumb over his knuckles; he had such improbably smooth skin. "Tell me."

"Not being alone. Just being - you know, held."

"Cuddling," she deadpanned.

"Well, yeah."

"It's got to be worth a try," she said merrily.

*********

Rikki came over again one day a few weeks later when Natasha was alone in the apartment; James had gone for a run and Steve was meeting with Sam. She was chopping apples and measuring raisins out while the oven heated, and Rikki snuck a hand past her and stole a piece of apple.

"Mmm. You bake?"

"I bake," said Natasha, laughing. "It's nicer than cooking. Cooking's a chore. Baking is fun."

"Natasha Romanov bakes," said Rikki, shaking her head. "That's pretty cool. I can barely scramble eggs." She smiled self-deprecatingly. She was carrying a gym bag and a school one, and she had come over here straight from her kickboxing class: she had climbed back into her jeans but Natasha could smell the sweat on her, and besides the kid was still wearing bandages wrapped around her fists. Someone really needed to take her in hand, properly. James and Steve would coddle her until she couldn't tell up from down anymore, and then it would be too late.

Natasha said, "Go wash up quick, I'll teach you about pie crusts."

"Cool," said Rikki happily and vanished into the corridor, where she kicked her shoes off noisily.

"And don't use all the hot water!"

"If I go in for an Aunt Nat," Rikki called back, "am I gonna die?"

"Uh, yes," said Natasha, scrambling not to drop the pie dish in a flash of panic.

"Shame," said Rikki.

*********

"OK, but come on, we're taking him shopping," Natasha said to James.

"He won't like it," said James.

"I don't care. I can't stand to look at that blue bag-thing for another second."

Steve said, "What?"

"The jacket," said Natasha. "It goes. And all others like it."

"Or you do?" He grinned at her.

"If I dare you, would you be more prepared to do it?"

"Of course he would," said James. 

"If it'll make you both happy, of course I'll do it," said Steve.

"You won't regret it," said Natasha happily.

"You will regret it," said James, smirking.

"Nothing expensive," said Steve. "I mean, I don't actually need -"

"Trust me, you do," said Natasha. "Expense isn't the point anyway. Something that _suits_ you is the point. Don't worry about it. I'll handle everything."

"You're right," said Steve. "I will regret it, won't I."

*********

The next time she did Nick a favour she came straight out to Brooklyn after, knee bouncing helplessly throughout the subway ride, chewing on her thumb when she forgot herself; she'd been trying to break that habit for about a decade... the weather had turned, it was officially autumn, and the wind was chill. Up the subway steps three at a time and through the streets at something she refused to let become an open run... she'd been dreaming all week, red-edged and shadowed, some missions brought it out, others didn't. Natasha climbed the stairs instead of taking the elevator in order to try and get a hold of herself, to take the edge off that need for human touch and warmth and company that was corkscrewing in her chest. Rikki or even John or their mother might be there... Sam might be there.

No one was there but Steve, at the drafting table, and James, who was thinking about taking up photography, judging by his computer screen. They both looked up - God, months later she still found it uncanny, the way they did that - and Natasha dropped her duffle with a satisfying crash.

"Gentlemen, clear your busy schedules please for the next twenty-four hours and pay attention to _me_." She kicked her shoes off and crawled into James' arms with a sigh of relief.

"Feed you, water you, draw you a bath..." said Steve, amused.

"Tie me to the headboard," Natasha said in a muffled voice. "Later though. Oh, why do I agree to this."

"You get bored," said James, wrapping his arms around her.

"You don't?"

He thought about it. "Not... really."

"Sometimes," Steve admitted. "But, to be honest with you, not bored enough." He stood up, and when Natasha twisted her head to look at him he was smiling. "What d'you want to eat? I'll cook if you're hungry."

"Or you could come over here and cuddle," she said.

And people thought Steve wasn't good at following orders.

*********

Four days later, at John's football game, Natasha hung over Steve's shoulder, waving a half-eaten hot dog, and said, "OK, this is worse than baseball. How d'you tell when someone's scored, there isn't even a goal."

James said, "Well, look, you see the blue - no, you know what, I can't even. Baseball was traumatic enough."

"Anyway, everybody'll cheer when someone's scored," said Steve.

"Just make sure you cheer with us," said Rikki.

"I'll do my best," said Natasha, and licked ketchup off her fingers.


End file.
